


A Moment to Enjoy Some Peace and Quiet

by FlameoSirFlameo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angela is a trainwreck, Canon Compliant, Domestic!Moira, Escort the Payload, Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Moira has her shit together for a nice change, Rated M for Themes, The Pain Addict, a kind of self-harm, but as Ira Glass would say, by Penn Jillette, don't @ me for the dubious science, imo entanglement is necessary for teleportation aka Fade, this story acknowledges the existence of sex, tiny bit of actual gameplay, yeah like that one Black Mirror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29042868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameoSirFlameo/pseuds/FlameoSirFlameo
Summary: It’s an accident. Moira had only been trying to help. But the first time Angela feels the pain she knows Moira made a mistake. She knows this is wrong. And Angela knows she’s going to do whatever it takes to make sure she feels it again.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain & Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	A Moment to Enjoy Some Peace and Quiet

And so that I do remember to never go that far  
Could you leave me with a scar  
-Missy Higgins

* * *

  


Their screams have died down, for the most part. The blood pounding in Angela’s ears drowns out any remaining sounds. She closes her eyes and slams her head against the back of her transport seat.

She couldn’t save them all. An entire village held hostage by omnic sympathizers and the team she came here with, led by Ana, had had to sit outside the perimeter and wait. Their orders were to hold— the terrorists had made it clear that any attempts to enter the village would result in murder of the hostages.

With their hands tied, Tracer scouted and confirmed the situation. Twelve gunmen and scores of terrified villagers. They were just finalizing an infiltration plan when shots were fired. That’s when the screaming had started. Shrill and trenchant. Instant pandemonium. 

Reinhardt led the charge into the city—their elite team of six backed up by a squad of Overwatch soldiers. The crumbling building damage evidence the terrorists had a lot more than guns at their disposal. Rockets, at a minimum. Angela, Winston, and Tracer had helped evacuate as many as they could; she healing those who needed it, though her staff could only handle one at a time. With limited manpower difficult decisions had been made.

Ana, Reinhardt, and Gabriel had pushed ahead to deal with the terrorists. They returned thirty minutes later. Reinhardt stoic, Ana impassive as always, and Gabriel with the fire in his eyes that Angela has begun to associate with killing. 

Angela wanted to stay until every last villager was accounted for, but by this point the Overwatch aid ships were landing and Ana ordered her team to move out. This is why Ana had command, she supposed; she’s able to walk away. Angela is almost grateful for the excuse not to have to hear the screams, the crying children looking for their parents. 

~~~

They debrief on the transport back to headquarters. The first thing she does when it lands is head straight for Moira’s apartment. She messages ahead to make sure Moira will be there. They already had plans to spend tonight together, one of their few, but Angela is surprised to realize she is looking for an excuse to bail. Her comm chirps.

_Yes. See you soon. x_

~~~

Angela’s hands shake and it takes her three tries to slip her key in the lock. She fumbles with the handle and hears Moira’s clipped footfalls approaching. Pushes the door open at the same time Moira rounds the corner. Moira sees her face, the expression on her face, and pulls her into a tight hug.

“Rough day?”

“No worse than usual.” Angela exhales into Moira’s chest, and tries to let herself be held. But Moira releases her too soon, and Angela is left still with echoes of screams in her mind. 

“Want to talk about it?”

Angela shakes her head. _No_ , she thinks bitterly, _I want to erase it._ Suddenly she’s fighting an overwhelming desire to be alone, to leave; she feels lost and spun. But if she left now Moira would be hurt. Moira hasn’t shown her anything but care and affection these past four months, as the frequency of aid missions has increased and they’ve had even less time together. Angela shouldn’t punish Moira for her own inability to cope. 

“No, I’m alright.”

“Come in, I finished early enough today to make us dinner.”

Moira turns back down the hall toward her kitchen, and Angela follows. She can smell roasted salmon, one of Moira’s favorite foods, and one Angela has always disliked. She accepts the offered glass of water, wishing it were something stronger. 

Moira pulls the fish from the oven and sets two plates on the table. They sit and eat. Or rather, Moira eats and Angela rearranges the food on her plate.

“Is it alright?” Moira looks up with a touch of concern. “Overcooked?”

Angela feels guilty for her lapse. It’s not like she often has time to cook, of course Moira would make something she’s familiar with. Besides, Angela has never actually _told_ her she doesn’t like fish.

“No it’s great,” Angela forces a smile, “I’m sorry, I guess I’m just not very hungry tonight.”

“You should eat,” Moira reaches across the table to take her hand. “Nanites are incredible, but even yours don’t provide nutrition.”

Angela sighs, and gives Moira a more genuine smile. “I should look into that.”

“Don’t. We’d have even fewer excuses to see each other.”

“You don’t need an excuse to see me.” Angela looks down at Moira’s hand in hers, and brings it to her lips.

They have little enough time together as it is, especially with Moira’s ever-shortening research deadlines and Angela’s unpredictable mission schedule. Moira is good to her. Too good. Angela doesn’t want to weigh her down with insignificant details. She picks up her fork and takes a bite. Swallows. Moira makes a low sound of contentment, and resumes eating.

When Moira realizes Angela isn’t going to finish her food she clears the plates and hauls her up from the table. Angela’s whole body feels heavy, weighted down and dragging. Moira guides her back to the bedroom, pulls off her clothes, and works her apart so thoroughly that Angela finally, finally doesn’t hear the screaming anymore.

Afterward Moira curls around her, and Angela stares into the darkness as Moira’s breathing changes form the quick pants of after-sex to the slow and heavy rhythm of sleep.

The sex with Moira was good, maybe the best Angela had ever had. But it wasn’t as often as she needed it. They both have drastically different schedules and besides, Moira often worked late. Aside from that Blackwatch wasn’t supposed to exist, and they didn’t want Angela to have to answer questions about something that didn’t exist. So they played it safe, and kept their nights together sporadic with no public acknowledgement beyond a stiff “Dr. Ziegler, Dr. O’Deorain” in passing. 

Angela knew, by process of elimination, where Moira’s lab must be. But she could never go there. It was a comfort to know Moira was nearby some days, but that was a far cry from accessible. Moira was patient, and attentive, and heaven knows an incredible lover, but sometimes Angela felt that Moira couldn’t understand her. She’d tried to communicate once, and failed.

_‘Moira, I… just don’t know anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I made a horrible mistake joining Overwatch. You know I find some of your work unethical, to say the least, but you seem suited to this environment. How do you do it?’_

_‘Don’t be fooled, I’m no better off than you.’_

_‘But you don’t…’ Angela had struggled to find the right words. ‘You don’t doubt your choices?’_

_‘At the end of the day, science and the superiority of ideas will prevail. I know we have our differences, but your brilliant mind is what landed you a position as head of Medical. Don’t give up, you’ll figure this out.’_

Moira is so sure of herself and Angela wishes she could siphon off some of that confidence. But they are so different.

It had been easier before Blackwatch. They hadn’t needed to be as careful. They worked in the same lab then.

Angela had been single, and intending to stay that way. Work and saving innocent lives came first. What had begun as forced collaboration with Moira in shared lab space became late nights debating methods; then as their respect for each other’s minds grew the debates faded into discussions that unfolded into conversations peppered with personal details.

Angela had asked, and so Moira told her about her parents back in Ireland, about the picnics they used to go on by the sea, and Angela had cried, and Moira had stopped, startled, to come closer and ask what she’d said wrong, and Angela had kissed her. 

The next night Angela invited Moira home with her, and discovered she has a birthmark on her left thigh, flecks of gold in her mismatched irises, and loses the bite in her voice when they’re alone. Moira taught her an intimacy of her body deeper than she had ever known. Angela was ruined for anyone else.

They didn’t tell anyone. They weren’t breaking rules, exactly, more like bending them. Moira quelled any of Angela’s early fears. This way they were only each other’s. 

After Blackwatch began things changed. At work Moira was assigned to a new lab, and when they were together she became withdrawn. Angela knew from reading between the lines of Morrison’s briefings that there was a new division, and that it was for secret ops became apparent in Moira’s evasive responses to Angela’s questioning. 

“Come on, at least give me a hint at what you’re working on? Maybe I can help?”

Moira’s expression was pained. “You know I can’t, mo chuisle.”

~~~

Moira wasn’t one for texting. She sent single-sentence answers if she sent anything at all. So when Angela needed to get something out of her system and wasn’t going to see her, she would go for a midnight swim.

The irony of stars is that what we see isn’t what they are, but what they used to be. For all she knows those stars are dead, long gone, and Angela is wishing on a void. She lays floating on her back, looking through the glass ceiling of the Overwatch gym pool, and inhales. Her lungs fill and her torso rises higher. Then she exhales, slowly, ever so slowly, lowering herself. It’s almost a game for her, to see how slowly she can go, to control her breath so that the water is undisturbed, a thin membrane sliding over her body, pulling her into itself. Folding her into it, making her a part of something larger. So she doesn’t have to think. No ripples in the pool; if anyone walked in they might not even notice her.

Underwater the world is distant for Angela. When she sinks below the surface and the liquid slips over her face, a sympathetic film covering her jaw then her cheeks and finally her closed lips, she can be apart. Her mind calms, just a little, and the drone of anxiety is quieted. As with sounds underwater, so with her mind. Thoughts take longer to reach her, and when they do they aren’t as loud. 

Suspended.

She holds her breath, and her whole world is sinking, sinking, until her lungs protest, burning and screaming, and she begins the slow swim upward. Breaking the surface is like being reborn, and she gasps and flails and relishes the feeling of being alive. Then she waits, and gauges how long it takes before the incessant drone of thinking comes back. She goes down again and again until it’s numbed. She’s numbed. An analgesic for the mind. Her record is seven times. That had been a bad day.

Moira doesn’t know about her nights in the pool. It’s not like she wouldn’t tell her… it’s just that she’s never asked.

~~~

Standard Overwatch briefings take place every two weeks and Angela is required to present any research developments. She hasn’t had any breakthroughs for months, which is presumably why Morrison asked Torbjörn to work on a special side project. Angela wasn’t made aware of it until it was complete. Ana calls it ‘a great leap forward in biotic field technology’. Angela calls it betrayal.

“How could he do this to me?!” Angela wears a short path across Moira’s kitchen floor as she paces, not able to hold still.

“Tobjörn knew, he _knew_ , that I didn’t want biotic technology weaponized. And what does he do? He goes ahead and makes a gun! The one thing I never wanted was to create ways for Overwatch commanders to more easily send people into danger!”

Moira shifts in her chair. “The range of a rifle would be far greater than that of your staff—“

“Don’t you dare take his side!” Angela snaps, nerves raw.

“I’m sorry.” Then after a moment, “Come here.” Moira extends her hand, palm facing up. Angela feels a pang of guilt. God knows they have little enough time together already, and Angela has just wasted half of tonight complaining about work. Another screw up, another selfish act that will eat at her later.

“Forget it, I’m sorry.” She lets herself be folded into Moira’s long arms.

~~~

Two days later, Angela receives the longest text she ever has from Moira.

_Come over tonight? If you can. I’ve had an idea. x_

Angela responds quickly. 

_Yes._

It’s almost like they’re back in the lab bouncing theories off each other. Angela misses that daily closeness more than she wants to admit.

Tonight, Moira hands her a glass of wine rather than water and leans back on the edge of her couch, fingers nervously tapping against her pant leg. 

“Angela... I want to talk to you about something.”

Angela pulls her attention up from tracing the stem of her glass to Moira’s eyes. They’re shifting, this is new. 

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“I know we don’t usually discuss my… research… but I’ve been working on a new technology that I feel confident will improve your healing rate in the field. Specifically, the efficiency of your staff’s biotic stream.”

Angela perks up. “Could it be more effective than a biotic rifle?”

Moira licks her lips, cautiously. “Possibly. If nothing else it will better protect you by enhancing your body’s nanites.”

Angela glosses over the note of affection in Moira’s voice, immediately clinical. Nanobiotics is her legacy— she’ll welcome any chance to improve it. “Tell me more. What _exactly_ do you want to do?”

Moira explains, and though Angela has a minimal understanding of quantum physics she begins to believe this just might work.

~~~

The process won’t take long, but they have to be careful. Moira has carte blanche with her research but Angela can’t be caught associating with Blackwatch. Angela is Mercy after all. And Mercy is a shining beacon of righteousness and a face of Overwatch. Angela spits. 

Her Valkyrie suit is packed into the box she’s wheeling over a dirt path that leads to the back entrance of Moira’s lab. She’d left the winged propulsion system back in her office, but her breastplate, visor, and staff are all safely tucked inside their specific, foam-molded padding. She reaches the nav point Moira gave her.

 _Hah,_ Angela thinks, self-satisfied. _I was right. I knew this is where she was working. So much for top secret._

She sends a text; Moira opens the door to help her quickly inside. The lab is shadowed and cold, with directional lights shining on an open exam table and several nearby computer screens glowing out of the darkness.

Angela removes her armor and staff.

“Should I put it on?”

Moira is both impersonal and nervous. She straightens a sleeve of her pressed shirt and motions toward a side table. “That won’t be necessary. Set it all here.”

Angela does, then removes almost all her clothing as they’d discussed. She hops up on the exam table and watches Moira run scans on her staff, with extra fine precision on the beam delivery mechanism. 

When everything is ready Moira turns to her, and takes both Angela’s small hands in hers. 

“Are you _sure_ you want to do this?”

“Yes. I trust you.”

Moira nods slowly. “Lie down then.”

The exam table is cold on the areas of exposed back and thighs not covered by her underwear, but Angela tries not to let it phase her. She imagines the stunned look on Ana’s face when she tells her they won’t need the rifle; wonders whether Torbjörn will feel vindicated or slighted. She starts, and reminds herself why she’s _really_ doing this: to become a better doctor, a better healer.

They had discussed the risks. If, in the worst case, her nanites were fried then her body would absorb them and she could create a new batch from scratch. She’d built the first after all. There would be a short spin up period, around four weeks, while the new set became accustomed to her body but that would be fine. She felt the risk was worth it.

Moira works silently, scanning Angela’s entire body to track her nanites then setting up the link to begin entanglement of the nanites with the molecules in her staff. The idea is simple: once entangled, the nanobiotics in her body would be able to provide a boost to her healing stream in combat. 

She isn’t meant to move, so can only see Moira in her periphery. She’s bent over a screen, monitoring the process. Angela almost laughs—she was never this precise when they worked together. Once Moira ruined an entire gene sequencing system because she insisted on drinking coffee next to it, while letting her favorite rabbit roam over the desk.

“It was due for replacement anyway,” she’d said afterward. Angela presumed she meant the equipment, not the rabbit.

Angela shuts her eyes and lets her thoughts drift. Aside from a slight tingling she can’t feel a change in her body. She tries to remember the last time she felt any pain at all. She’s been safe, staying out of range for the most part during missions and dutifully healing her squadmates. Her own nanites’ healing properties are almost useless at this point, aside from proof of concept and their constant background repairs as her cells degenerate with time. She thinks of Moira, of their age difference, and feels her stomach tighten at the reminder they’re constantly aging further apart. She’d offered to help, of course. 

_’Moira, wouldn’t you like me to add nanites in your bloodstream? They can’t reverse the aging process but your body is relatively undamaged. You’d be a great candidate and—‘_

_‘No.’_

_‘But... why not? There’s no risk of rejection, and I swear the process is refined. I have data going back for years now that you can review…'_

_‘It’s not about the process Angela. I trust your technology is safe.’_

_‘Then what is it?’_

_‘The true struggle is for the superiority of ideas. Our greatness as a species lies in the relation of our mind to the universe. If we take away the finitude of human life, then we break the game. With enough time, everything is possible, so there’s no challenge.  
I have to admit you tempt me with the opportunity, but ultimately I believe we are meant to do the best we can with what we are given.’_

_‘You don’t really think that. You’ve modified your genes! Look at your research now! That’s not what you were given. You made it!’_

_‘That’s all... different. I will still die.’_

_‘So can I!’_

_‘There’s a difference between_ can _and_ will.’

_‘If you want to do the best with what you’re given then use it! You have me. And I want to do this for you!’_

_‘…I’m sorry mo chuisle. I won’t change my mind.’_

There’s still so much Angela hasn’t done, so many people she can help. And time yet to convince Moira to come around to her way of thinking.

“Finished.” 

Angela sits up; Moira helps her off the table. 

“How do you feel?”

“Fine?” Angela stretches. She doesn’t feel any different.

“Let me check.” Moira scans her body with a handheld device that looks like a paddle. Angela is reminded of security checkpoints, except Moira’s wand isn’t a metal detector — it’s counting the entangled particles based on their energy levels and polarization.

Moira exhales and nods once, pleased with the results. “Grand.”

Angela slides on her visor and uses it to run the diagnostics program on her staff. Everything comes up green across the board. She simulates a mission scenario and gasps at the resulting graph. Her staff has 10% increased healing efficiency, and doubled beam length. 

“Look at this.” She passes the visor to Moira, who flips it around.

“You know these things are designed to go _behind_ your head, right?” Moira grumbles, before a rare smile of triumph spreads across her face. “It worked!”

She beams and pulls Angela into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to her hair. 

“Be safe out there for me, alright?”

~~~

Angela’s next assignment is two days away. Moira works late; they haven’t seen each other since that night in her lab. Angela can’t wait to field test her new setup. She again pictures Ana’s expression when she sees the improved Valkyrie staff in action, and has to admit she's gloating. Angela leaves work early the day before the mission, locking up her office and heading back to her apartment.

But she can’t sit still, can’t settle to anything. She tries to sleep but when staring at the ceiling lasts over an hour she packs a bag and heads to the pool. She knows she shouldn’t go into a mission on no sleep, but as she slips beneath the water that thought is crushed under the comforting weight of liquid oblivion.

~~~

The mission is simple. 

Escorting a truckload of much-needed medical supplies through a dense city center. Angela reflects that they seem to be going on a lot of these types of missions lately. One of the tedious consequences of a fractured peacetime.

It happens faster than she can process. She sees the flash and is already moving forward before the pulse grenade explosion cracks the air around them. Shields are down and shrapnel peppers Reinhardt’s face. Gabriel disappears after the fleeing militant as Reinhardt staggers sideways at the same time she activates her healing stream, connecting to him.

Of all the things Angela trained for, she is not prepared for this. The instant her biotic stream connects is pain, white hot, searing and scorching, flashing and pulsing through her body to tear at her limbs and lacerate her nerves.

She falls to the ground on her hands and knees, gasping, eyes wide. Nothing but instinct and pure trained muscle memory keeps her finger on the trigger of her staff, healing stream still engaged. In a haze, she wonders if this is what it feels like to be struck by lightning. But unlike an instant flash and dissipation, this lingers, tingling fire. She feels a sense that time has dilated and the whole world has dimmed. Her body is numb and her mind is… blissfully clear. She watches her own thoughts form, exist, and fade. 

As if from far away she hears Ana at her side, uncharacteristic concern in her voice. “Angela! What happened? Are you alright?”

She dimly nods. Ana doesn’t matter anymore. The mission is a washed-out afterthought in her mind. She gasps around the aftershocks of pain in her body and tries to hold on to the feeling a little longer. 

As the sounds of chaos around her sharpen to reality she thinks of the pool. Almost immediately she knows she will never go to the pool again.

It must be an accident. Moira did not intend this, and there had been no indication of error in the lab. The diagnostic had come back clean, only reporting the benefit of her staff’s new abilities.

But as the ghost tremors of pain rack her body, leaving no visible damage, she knows Moira made a mistake. She knows this is wrong. And Angela knows she’s going to do whatever it takes to make sure she feels it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s all the backstory you didn’t ask for:
> 
> Angela doesn’t like fish because it’s in a lot of Swedish dishes. In my head she spent a lot of time with the Lindholms after her parents died, so fish reminds her of her parents’ death.
> 
> Moira is so stable because she has fully integrated her shadow (a la Carl Jung). Angela shuts down any possibility of darkness in herself. Moira desperately loves Angela but doesn’t understand how someone, particularly someone *she’s* chosen as ideal, could not see the rationality of ideas vs emotions. That Angela could be held captive by her mental health is out of Moira’s realm of possibility.


End file.
